


On the Edge of Seventeen

by Ghanima_Starkiller



Series: Reimagining Fairy Tales [3]
Category: Fairy Tales and Related Fandoms, Schneewittchen | Snow White (Fairy Tale)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-06
Updated: 2013-02-06
Packaged: 2017-11-28 08:59:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/672615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghanima_Starkiller/pseuds/Ghanima_Starkiller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A wily, scheming Snow white turns the tables on her would be murderer, and involves him in an age old rite....</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Edge of Seventeen

Sometimes you have to join a tale in the progress of its unfolding to begin to comprehend a larger picture, the true breadth of wickedness the story contains. It whispers in your ear and it tells you, it tells you:

She doesn’t remember him. Why would she? They were children together, the woodsman’s son and the princess, acceptable playmates when youth is still innocent and flushed, before propriety takes precedence and caste separates even the warmest of acquaintances. He’s seven years older than she, and he can remember when she could barely toddle. He has been taught—it has been beat into him by his father—to be obedient to his Queen. But he has reason to now as he watches the girl joyously kneeling in the thick, lush grass, plucking at wildflowers.

She’s grown now, there’s no way to deny or ignore it: puberty was generous to her, and as she approaches true womanhood, she has become truly superb. The globes of her generous, milky bosom rise and fall over the neckline of her tightly-laced bodice, her scarlet lips parted gently as she both breaths and tastes the lush forest air. Her long, luxurious black hair is loose and whips wildly in the wind; she tosses her head, a careless little gesture to sweep the locks from her face, the red ribbons set to bind it flying like pennants, unaware of the affect she is having.

“Luca,” she recalls suddenly, turning a beaming smile on him; his breath catches in his throat and his gloved hand, wrapped around the hilt of his hunting knife, tightens but does not draw the blade from its sheath. Her laughter chimes gently. “I know you,” she says brightly, her dark eyes half-lidded as she looks up at him; his back is to the sun and its dazzling her vision, creating a golden halo about him. She sits up on her knees, her fingers working to pull the petals from a daisy; the motion pulls her dress tight against her body and her breasts slip further up her bodice. He thinks, just for a moment, that he can see the curved top of her pink nipple. “Isn’t it? I know why my stepmother sent you on this errand.”

‘I doubt it,’ he thinks smugly for a moment, until she brings one of her crimson ribbons to her neck and wraps it around. “Is this what it was meant to be?” she asks innocently. She pushed her bottom lip out in a pretty little pout. “No,” she decides, “she’ll want a trophy, a token, to be certain. My head?” Luca’s expression turns horrified at the thought, as if what he was instructed to do was any less savage. She gasps, her own countenance still playful as she places her hand over her heart. “Yes,” she decides, “this.” She crawls toward him and reaches out; he’s too stunned to resist as she takes his hand and places it over her bosom. “Would you like to feel it beat before you cut it from me?”

She is kneeling before him, a small smile of her full mouth as she gazes up at him. “Now what can I give you,” she says in a husky voice, “in exchange for sparing my life?” Her small hand reaches up, under the hem of his tunic to the crotch of his tights where she feels his prominent, solid bulge. It grows more rigid beneath her caress and he pulls in a sharp breath, his head spinning, unsure of how to act, what to do. Is he truly concerned about decency and decorum when he means to cut her heart out? “Shall I plead on my knees?” Her nimble fingers work at the ties of his suede hose, and he is still too numb to protest, his mouth agape, his fingers curled around the hilt of that hunting knife as if it were his last harness to reality in this strange new world.

Those red lips are kissing the head of his freed cock as it swells and bloats with blood, her slender white fingers encircling his hot flesh, pumping along its velvet length. Her large eyes look up into his as her tongue strokes him, swirls around him. His gloved hand grasps a fistful of her hair and gives it a tug, yanking her head back. Her smile never falters. Her long, raven hair still in his grip, she leans forward; the engorged head of his thick member brushes her chin, her throat, her collar bone, until it nestles between those two luscious mounds of her breasts.

“I know these woods as well,” she murmurs, “though not, I suspect, as well as you do, Master Huntsman.” She stands suddenly, beckoning to him as she wanders deeper into the forest, walking backward as she crooks a finger at him, stepping carelessly but without stumbling once. Her other hands works at the ribbons of her bodice, loosening it, pulling her breasts up above her gown, baring their perfect roundness to the sunlight filtering through the lush green canopy. Her nipples pucker and entice.

Before he is aware that his feet are moving, he follows as if in a trance. She leads him to a clearing that he is sure he has never come across, even with his extensive knowledge of this wood. A moss covered stone sits at its center; it looks as if it had been carved in some far gone, ancient time, but it has been worn by age and the elements. Still he can see the shallow grooves in its surface that were once meaningful symbols to his ancestors.

She leans against it and lifts her skirts to her waist, spreading her legs and standing on her toes as she positions herself. His eyes fall first upon the creamy soft flesh of her thighs peeking above her stockings in such a contrast to the shocking red ribbons she wears as garters; one has come loose and flows down her stocking like the trickling of blood. Her backside is round and plump, perfectly shaped. And that nest of coal black hair, those glossy curls between her thighs. Her sex is parted coyly, a plumb smile greeting him. It looks almost like a fresh scar: glistening and brightly pink. He needs no further invitation: cursing his own weakness, he kneels between her slender legs and burrows his face into her, his gloved fingers grasping at the line between the two plush cheeks of her rump as he feasts.

She tastes sweet like cherries as he devours her noisily, as he has so desired to do for too long, his mouth smacking and slurping against her tender flesh, rubbing his nose and lips against it. Her backside moves in small little upward thrusts, and her words encourage him, beg him to continue as she moans and whimpers, clawing her fingers against the stone. She comes, flooding his mouth with her hot, syrupy juice.

Without hesitation, he stands and mounts her, his cock now throbbing with anticipation, gorged on his own blood; he shoves it into her clumsily, groaning as he feels her wet softness envelop him. There is no barrier, no blood, to push through, but he doesn’t take notice as he begins to work his demanding member in and out of her tight depths. He’s savage, bestial as he clenches his teeth and nearly growls, pounding her, his belly slapping loudly against her bottom as he vigorously and relentlessly pumped her. One hand seized her hair again, tugging her back, while the other cups her breasts, toying with her pert nipples until she’s almost screaming for him.

“Not inside, love,” she whines desperately, panting, moaning a shrill, “Ohhhhhhhh!” He withdraws just in time to spurt his seed onto the stone between her legs in four strong bursts; it clings to the moss and runs in white rivers like lava through the thin, ritualistic furrows. He notices that the stone there is already stained a deep black. Whatever this place was, it was a place of power, of witchery. He backs away carefully.

“The heart,” he murmurs, his voice low and guttural. “I need….”

“Any old animal will do,” she said lightly as she slips off the stone and pulls her skirts done, arranging them primly. “Surely that has crossed your mind. A pig, maybe.” She smirks at the idea, a silent spiteful message to her stepmother, a pig herself.

“Yes,” he agrees quickly, tucking himself into his hose, alarmed now, glancing around him as if he was just coming out of a sleep and found himself in unfamiliar surroundings. “A pig will do,” he says, nodding his head briskly. “What have you done here?” he gasps.

She puts her finger to her blood red lips, urging him to keep their secret. “There is magic in the forest,” she whispers and her laughter follows him as he turns on his heel and runs as fast as he can. “Ask my mother, your Queen, won’t you?” she calls after him, her mirth spiteful, merry. “And perhaps next time she will not be such a coward as to send a boy to do an enchantress’ work!”

“You’ve frightened the poor boy,” the Prince says with a self-satisfied grin on his mouth as he emerges from the wood. “Are you sure he won’t give the game away?”

“Him? No.” She clucks her tongue. The Prince grabs her, presses her to him and kisses her bruisingly on the lips. “Is the cottage prepared, and the little men?” she asked, licking her lips, tasting his mouth after he’d pulled away. He takes her hand and leads the way.

“I promise you,” he swears, “your stepmother will dance to her death at our wedding, and we will toast her.” They laugh together as they stroll through the wood, hand in hand.


End file.
